The Art Of Letting Go
by Katie Havok
Summary: Her Newt is a man of action, and when words fail, he's perfectly comfortable falling back on instinct. There's an art to leaving him, she thinks.


Her Newt is a man of action, not words. He tries, but when words fail, he always falls back on instinct because he's most fluent in the language of motion. There's an art to letting him go.

* * *

She's known him for two days when he touches her cheek.

His gaze is startlingly direct, eyes bright with the same moisture that weighs down her own. His attention has a weight and texture she'd first noticed in the chamber of the Death Pool when he'd implored her to _trust_. "Tina, I'll catch you," he promised and he _had_ , even after she'd been so willing to sacrifice him on the altar of her own ambitions.

Now she's falling again, falling hard, and she's divided: his knuckles are cool on her cheek and his impossibly green eyes say everything that his mouth still _can't_ , and it's on the tip of her tongue to beg him to stay. He's caught her once already, but she has no guarantee that he's willing to catch her again. So she says nothing; instead, he promises to return to her, book in hand, and Tina can't keep the skip from her step after he leaves.

 _(Newt pauses on the gangplank and she watches as he tilts his head and squares his shoulders before continuing upwards._ I know _, she thinks._ **I know.** _He doesn't look back, and she can't hold that against him. For the first time, she lets him go.)_

* * *

She's known him for a year when he presses her against a wall.

He's returned from England, book in tow, as promised. She is unsurprised to find that he looks precisely the same: hair just this side of too long, skin just this side of too-bronzed to be socially acceptable (he'd been in the desert, she remembers), ever-changing eyes golden against the greater backdrop of the entirely of him, mannerisms stilted—except when he's in the case.

He brings her down into his world on their first night together, and sheds his greatcoat and suit-coat and waistcoat, lowers his braces, and discards his tie. She should be taken aback by his casual impropriety but she learned the first time: in most respects, he's more animal than man, and one can't expect an animal to uphold human social convention. Besides, if she's honest with herself, she's more comfortable around him when he is simply _himself_.

The strange gravity that had caught them on their first meeting is still there, but neither act on it, content to remain in orbit for a bit longer. She's falling still, but now she suspects he's falling as well.

He insists on sleeping in the case. This doesn't surprise her.

"I quite like my own bed," he explains. "The creatures also like to know I'm accessible, and it minimizes the chance of escape."

For the duration of his stay, he's the perfect pantomime of a perfect gentleman. It isn't until their final night together, when Queenie is out with Jacob, when the fire has burned down low and he's downed two glasses of Dragon's Fire whiskey, that he catches her shoulder and spins her into a wall.

Newt tastes like the alcohol he's consumed, tacky and slightly sweet, and she's not surprised to learn that he kisses like he does everything else that catches his interest: with confidence and surprising talent. Lips and tongue and teeth work in tandem to leave her breathless, to unhinge her knees, but he's got his arms wound around her, and he's there to catch her.

He smells like sunshine and fresh air, and the scent lingers with her well into the morning.

 _(He leaves her the following day with a chaste kiss on the cheek and the promise of more in his smile. "I'll return in a few months," he says, and she lets him go.)_

* * *

It's been one year and five months, and his hands are beneath her skirt. Tina doesn't mind.

She meets him on the docks, just as the boat arrives. A blink and he's there, looking more wildly out of his element than usual, but blue eyes land on her and _remain there_ , and Tina finds she can't care less about how he _looks_.

She takes him home and they act all the rituals of politeness, but there's a tension between them now, an anticipation. It's no surprise when he casually leans over and pecks her while he prepares feed for his creatures, and he grins boyishly when she returns the gesture sometime later—but that's as far as he takes it the first night.

The second night, he kisses her with all the heat and passion she knows resides in his soul, and she returns it with equal fervor.

The third night, Tina gasps raggedly when his lips trail down the column of her neck and chokes when teeth clamp around the peak of a nipple through the satin of her blouse. Newt's hands are wicked and clever as he pulls her into his lap, tracing lightly up her inner calf and thigh. He tugs her silky camisole aside before cupping her firmly, the heel of his hand grinding where she most wants to be touched.

"I've got you, Tina" he murmurs as she strains toward completion. "I'll catch you", and she falls apart in his hands.

Later, she moves to return the favor, and his hands are firm as they still hers. "Next time," he promises. "I quite like the anticipation, don't you?"

 _(When they say goodbye, he keeps his clenched fingers by his side but kisses her firmly, in full view of the gathered throngs. They can't bring themselves to be embarrassed by this. "I'll see you again soon," he promises, and she lets him go.)_

* * *

It's been one year and eight months, and she's tired.

Work has ground her down and frayed her edges, but that all falls away when he steps through the Portkey exit. The ridiculous flop of hair over his brow is longer, his face thinner. He looks carved from obdurate stone, Stygian eyes sunken into deep pits of exhaustion. He _looks_ much like she _feels_.

"War is coming," he says without preamble. "I mustn't tarry, but I...I couldn't stay away."

He leans in to capture her mouth, and she notices that his scent has changed—from sunshine and earth to bitter herbs and the tang of spent adrenaline. She doesn't think about what this change means because she knows what's been going on in his country. She knows what the implications of his altered appearance and scent might mean.

She takes him home and feeds him. He eats with less enthusiasm than usual, picking at the meal and evading all attempts at conversation. Frustrated, she gives it, and him, up in favor of awkward silence.

 _I'm here_ , she thinks, and she doesn't allow his reticence to hurt her.

Later, on the couch, cool fingers stroke her cheek, her neck. He nuzzles his face into her hair and fetches a deep sigh.

"I don't know when I'll be back," and his voice is lethal in its hesitance. "I've been asked to join the effort. My brother, Theseus—he's the war hero, but he thinks I'm the man they need behind-the-scenes. Reconnaissance, observations, that sort of thing. I have, um—a bit of a _reputation_ in these matters, you see." Newt's laugh, poor thing that it is, is as bitter as the new scent that clings to him.

"You're going away."

"Yes. I don't want to, but I—I think I _have_ to; it would be the best way to protect those I lo—those that I _care_ about."

She understands his reasoning, but that doesn't stop the hurt. The last thing she wants to speak of on this night is the horrors that await them in the future though, so she guides his mouth to hers, and tangles her fingers in that absurd hair, and encourages him to breathe with her.

Kissing, as it so often does with them, leads to her fingers on his skin. He doesn't stay her hand as she tugs off his suit jacket or his waistcoat—favored color combinations thrown over in favor of near-relentless black, broken only by the band of snow at his wrist and neck, and she thinks remotely that it's too early to be in mourning—and encourages her forwardness as she removes his shirt. She leans forward to taste an enticing patch of freckles, and the sound he makes redeems all his prior awkward silences.

He is truly freckled _everywhere_ , and the scars she should have expected but still take her by surprise. Tina uses her mouth and hands and tongue to map them all, flowing around and into him to sooth away the ache in his skin. He is still beneath her, but not passive—he breathes through his teeth and bites back more meaningful sounds with stifled gasps.

Newt's breathing halts when she takes him in hand, moving against him experimentally. He dips his head to watch her, hooded eyes flicking between her face and where she grasps him. Tina half expects him to dissuade her, as he did the last time she tried this; instead, he covers her hand with his own trembling one and adjusts the angle of her wrist. Then he nods once, sharply.

Newt may be a scientist, but Tina is a born investigator. Cataloging his reactions is second-nature. She discovers that he will shiver against her with a light touch, but firm pressure causes him to drop his head back and make a raw sound deep in his chest. She marvels when the deft touch of her hand sets his nerves alight, but the flick of her tongue galvanizes him. She learns that the skin around his eyes tightens with impending release and that he is wholly unselfconscious as he contracts beneath her, blunt nails dug into her couch, her name trembling on his lips as he splinters.

Tina gentles him through it, then discreetly cleans them both as his trembling subsides. When he gathers her into his arms, she notes that there is moisture on his cheeks that is not sweat, and she thumbs it away when he voices a watery sigh.

"I'm all right Tina, truly. I needed that, I think...but I needed to see you more." He presses his face into her neck, voice muffled by her skin. She is pleased to note that where before he was rigid, he is now boneless and pliant against her. He releases a jaw-cracking yawn as they set his clothes to right, and she knows that, this night at least, he'll sleep.

Newt takes her offered hand, legs wobbly. "I need to leave in the morning," and his recently relaxed state does not extend to his voice. There is sadness there and a touch of regret, but it hurts to think of that so she doesn't. "If I could press upon your kindness again, I'd very much like the pleasure of sleeping on your couch. It's _very_ comfortable."

 _There's_ a hint of the Newt she knows, so Tina pulls down the spare blankets and watches him transfigure his formerly-crisp suit into pajamas. She helps him settle onto the couch—he's fading fast now, eyes half-lidded and limbs heavy with fatigue—and tucks him in and chastely kisses his cheek before retiring to her own room. As she drowses, she realizes she can hear him in the other room, breathing deep and even. She allows it to lull her into sleep.

The next morning, she checks on him before her morning ablutions. She returns to find him half-awake and deliciously sleep-rumpled, but his gaze is sharp.

Newt catches her in a blistering kiss, calloused fingers smoothing over her still-damp skin. His mouth is deft against hers, but she quickly discovers it is even more talented in another capacity: pinned to the couch, broad hands containing the primal roll of her hips, he curls his tongue _just so_ and the answering snap of her orgasm is enough to wrench a sob out of her.

When he moves back up her, wiping his mouth, he looks ridiculously smug but she can't find it in herself to care. He tucks her against him, smoothing his hands down the expanse of her back. They are content for now, but his pajamas are black and they are both reminded of things that are larger than this space they've created around them.

"I'll come back as soon as I can, Tina." She shifts to watch his face but he doesn't move, eyes fixed on the carpet. "I promise to come back to you. I just don't know when." His eyes are damp but his jaw is firm, so she kisses him and promises to be there, forever willing to take him in her arms again when he returns.

He returns from his own toilet in the black suit that Tina is coming to hate. He's freshened it with a spell, and his skin is so closely shaven it seems burnished. She can't bring herself to touch him like this, so foreign to the Newt she knows and loves, so she remains at arm's length.

The bitter smell is back on him, but she doesn't notice until much later—after he's gone.

 _(When they say goodbye, he wraps himself around her and breathes her in deeply. Tina takes the moment to memorize the hard line of him against her, the lean cut of his cheek on her scalp. She can feel the shaky halo of his breath against her hair, but she cannot hear the words he's mouthing—just as well because she knows she isn't ready to acknowledge them. Not now, not when the future is still so uncertain. Then he disentangles himself and strides away, shoulders straight and head held high, and he doesn't look back. She lets him go.)_

* * *

It's been three months since he left, then six, and no word. She scours every international paper she can get her hands on, wizard and No-Maj alike. She uses her connections at MACUSA to get daily updates on the progress in Europe—all of it bad, all of it of no use to her because nobody has heard anything about _Newt_.

Six months come and go, then eight, then it's been a full year and still nothing. She sits on her (their) couch and does not cry, no matter how bitterly she occasionally curses him. She may be in love with a man who guards his own heart as jealously as a dragon guards its cache—and she can admit, here in this silence, that she does love him—but she refuses to mourn what _may have been_ because there still aren't any guarantees.

After a year and three months, she asks her contacts to reach across the pond to the Ministry of Magic. She doesn't expect a response, so she is floored when an ostentatious owl swoops in a week later, bearing a letter from one Theseus Scamander.

The letter is brisk, almost curt: it informs her that Newt is very much alive and safe but under deep cover. He sends his regards and apologies for the lack of contact and wishes her to know that she lives in his thoughts. Also, if she would please never contact the Ministry again on behalf of one Newton Scamander, as his disappearance is unofficial and unauthorized and he is considered rogue; they've disavowed all knowledge of his actions and whereabouts, and if she would abstain from putting them in a potentially tricky situation, that would be appreciated.

Tina can read between the lines well enough, and for the first time in over a year, she smiles expansively. She goes home with one thought beating in her head:

 _Alive and safe. Alive and safe. Alive and safe_.

 _(She takes baths, now. She uses the water to distract herself from thoughts of him, though truthfully, he's a constant presence in her mind. Queenie moves out eventually, goes to live with her Jacob, and Tina finds she's_ happy _to see her sister gone—it means that her thoughts are entirely her own. It also means, on those desperately lonely nights, she can use her hands and pretend it's him. It's a paltry substitute for the real thing, but it's all she has so it'll have to do. She never acknowledges it to herself, but in her heart, she's preparing to say goodbye for the final time.)_

* * *

It's been three years, two months and seventeen days since he first swept into her life, and there's a knock on the door. She isn't expecting company.

A quick flick of her wand indicates that it is only one person behind her door; another swooping gesture indicates that they aren't using any spells or enchantments to hide. A third spell outlines their form: long and lean, with a ridiculous mop of hair up top and a case at their side, head canted and posture non-threatening.

She flings the door open, and he's there. He's _there_ , and Tina's breath hitches joyfully.

The one communique she'd received had given her no clue to his whereabouts, but wherever he was must have been warm. His face is deeply tanned, eyes faded to startling green. The laugh lines around his mouth are deeper, and he is smiling down at her so broadly that she thinks distantly it must be painful.

"You're here," she manages, as she throws her arms around him, sending his case tumbling to the floor.

"You're here," she gasps as he enfolds her, pressing her firmly against him.

"I'm here," he chokes as his mouth finds hers, and the intensity of his kiss—hard enough to feel the small scar that bisects his upper lip—clears their minds of anything they could say with words.

Her Newt is a man of action, and when words fail, he's perfectly comfortable falling back on instinct.

They stumble toward the couch, refusing to part, shedding their clothes along the way. She gets stuck on her pajama top, and he growls before silently magicking it away. His various coats come off with ease but in their haste he tangles in the sleeves of his shirt, fumbling through until he manages to extract himself.

He guides her until her legs bump the couch, and he prevents her from falling with the simple expediency of cupping her buttocks—a sensation she knows would be more pleasant without her drab pajama pants between them, so she wriggles out of them and tosses them aside. He's quick to dispatch the rest of his clothing, and when they are standing with nothing between them the mood _shifts_ , frenzied motion transmuting into languid touches and gazes.

The apartment is chilled but the fire is blazing, so he leads her to the hearth and lays her down. He hovers, mouth and hands everywhere, and it's selfish but she's waited in purgatory for him so she lies back and simply _enjoys it_. Newt's glazed eyes and trembling hands tell her he doesn't mind.

He settles between her thighs like it's the most natural thing in the world, and for them it _is_. She rolls her hips to meet him halfway and guides him as he nudges into her, hissing.

She isn't as prepared as she should be, and it's been a _very_ long while since she's done this, but she relishes the burn and the stretch because it's _him_ and they've waited an eternity for this. He settles against her and breathes, long and slow through his nose. She can feel him trembling, and she knows he hovers on the razor's edge—so he waits, the flange of his hip digging into her until he's solid in her hands.

She traces the scar across the bridge of his nose, the one on his upper lip when he withdraws and sinks back in. The noise he makes is scandalous and his eyes are _torrid_ , and she welcomes his invasion.

Newt opens his mouth and engulfs her thumb as he sinks in the second time, and now it's Tina making noise, _friction_ and _pressure_ and _heat_ forcing her to toss her head back into the carpet.

They groan in unison the third time, mouths a hair apart. He moves against her like a wave, and his tidal pull keeps her anchored, nails carving lines in his forearms, his shoulders, the small of his back. Newt's hand glides over the plane of her stomach and lower still, rubbing deft circles while she murmurs in delight.

The force of her release catches her off-guard. He is prepared for it, milking the crest of her body around him with steady motion, taking her pleasure into his capable hands. When Tina returns to herself, he is radiant but watching her carefully. She catches her breath and rolls her shoulders, then nods her permission.

Newt huffs as he resumes rocking against her, searing mouth pressed against her skin. He trades their tidal motion for something better suited to his pleasure: movements shorter and harder, snapping his hips against her until he is panting, snatching each breath from the air and releasing it in punctuated moans.

Tina watches him drop his shaggy head between his straining shoulders, his back and arms slick with sweat beneath her hands. A tremble starts in his hip and radiates through his body, intensifying when she consciously tightens herself around him. The evidence of his release is there in the focus of his eyes turned inward, where he chokes out her name and his rhythm turns erratic, stutters, breaks, _falters_. Tina delights in it.

Newt's still jittery when lowers himself, catching her in a breathless kiss when he curls into her side. She pretends not to notice the moisture on his cheeks—he is glowing with sweat—but he wipes it away with the back of his hands. The fact that he doesn't hide endears her even more, something she had thought impossible.

Tina tuts soothingly as she wraps around him. The sweat is cooling on his skin, and his breathing is starting to even out. "I'm sorry, I'm going to fall asleep," he drowses, and she stirs long enough to retrieve and drape a blanket over them both.

"Sleep," she murmurs. "You've earned it."

He hums and nuzzles his face into hers. "Stay?" he asks, and now his voice is little more than a whisper.

"Always," she breathes, but he doesn't respond because he's asleep, arm flung over his forehead.

The evidence of their affections is slick between her thighs, so she uses a corner of the blanket to wipe it away. Then she settles against him, the steady movement of his speckled, bronzed, perfectly imperfect shoulders lulling her into the fuzzy state that resides between sleep and wakefulness. She remains there until the sun rises, marveling at the man curled against her.

* * *

He stays for one day, two days, a week. On the tenth day, he sits her down.

"I have enjoyed our time together _immensely_ , but I do have needs to attend to back in London." His hand finds hers, clasping it. "I don't want to leave. I _don't_ , but I must because I still have a duty to my Ministry and to my brother. Before I leave, I wanted to ask you..."

He falters, and his eyes drop to the table. Speaking to the scarred surface, he shifts and fidgets in a way that is so essentially _Newt_ that she feels her heart expand in her chest. She tightens her grip and rubs her thumbs over his rough knuckles encouragingly.

It must help because he firms his voice as he speaks. "When I come back, I'd like...I'd like it to be long-term. I'd like to come and stay. The work that yet remains on the latest edition of my book, I can do just as easily here. I have money, my parents left me a sizable sum, and all the proceeds from my book sales have gone into my vault at Gringotts, so I won't be a burden. I...I should like to take the time to court you properly, because surely you know—surely you can imagine that I...that I—"

He cuts himself off, breaking his staring contest with the table. He breathes deeply once, twice, and then jerks his chin up to meet her eyes. "I don't ever want to be parted from you again, Tina," and his voice is as soft as falling snow. "When I return to New York, if you'll permit me—if you'd _allow_ it, I'd very much like for it to be for keeps."

Words are beyond her at the moment, because she knows what he is asking. She knows what the full implications of his words are, and is it such a surprise when he'd used himself so skillfully to prove it to her every night? There is still a war brewing in Europe, and there's still no guarantees about the future—but now she knows that he will catch her if she falls, that he will _always_ be there to catch her, and that is enough.

"Yes," she breathes, and he moves his head to brush a kiss against her mouth. "Yes," she repeats, as she deepens the kiss and cradles him. "Yes," and his cheeks are damp but so are _hers_ , and this time, she doesn't think it's such a bad thing.

 _(When they say goodbye, he gathers her against him and peppers her face with kisses. She responds by embracing him as hard as she can, watching crowds be damned. They end up locked together in a searing kiss, all heat and tongue and the promise of tomorrow. Their breaths are frozen in their throats so they don't say anything, but Tina is turning into a woman of instinct and she thinks that perhaps he understands. Then, too soon, he is once again moving away from her. As always, he doesn't turn and look back. For the last time, she lets him go.)_

* * *

It's been four years to the day since he swept into her life, a whirlwind of beasts and freckles, and Tina is back where it all started.

The crowd is sparse when he finds her, and she's thankful. There would be many clucking matrons and wagging tongues in the older crowd for the way she throws herself at him, the way she kisses him deeply enough to steal the air from his lungs. It's positively indecent, and she cares not a jot.

He laughs when they separate, and his voice is richer and warmer than she remembers. "You are a sight for sore eyes," he breathes, and his own shine green-gold onto her. He's carrying his case in one hand but he's still mostly a gentleman, so he offers her his free elbow.

"Tina, will you walk with me?" he asks, and she smiles so wide it hurts her jaw.

"I thought you'd never ask."

He is laughing as he guides them through the crowd, into a convenient alley. The smile remains as he Apparates them into her apartment, and it's a permanent fixture when he strips her and loves her like she is something precious, something to be cherished.

They combine their money to find a larger apartment in a better part of the city, and they buy a bed that is luxurious by _all_ standards. They attend Jacob and Queenie's wedding, and they dance together under the stars. Queenie watches them with a secret smile and makes plans to attend another wedding-and soon, if the color of their thoughts is any indication.

 _(He leaves her only once, in all this time. She sees him off at the dock, a departure punctuated by uncomfortable pauses and loaded silences. She doesn't want him to leave but his publisher demanded another docket of press tours in England, and she's still officially an Auror at MACUSA so she must remain behind. "Never again," he promises as he breathes into her. "Next time, Tina, you come with me." He moves away from her, but he stops to wave and blow a kiss from the gangplank, and Tina is appeased because she realizes she's not letting him go; she's simply allowing him to tie up loose ends. He's always been there to catch her, and when he returns,_ she'll _be there to catch_ him _.)_

* * *

Her Newt is a man of action, not words. He tries, but when words fail, he always falls back on instinct because he's most fluent in the language of motion. _There's an art to letting him go_ , she thinks as she winds her engagement ring around her finger, _but there's also an art to loving him._


End file.
